


Thou Pluckest Me Out

by heartstone



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ambiguous Slash, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Open to Interpretation, Possibly Unrequited Love, Third Age, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:00:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23038990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartstone/pseuds/heartstone
Summary: The moonlight falls on a skeletal hand clutching a dark strand of hair.***The Witch-King watches over his Master.
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon, Sauron | Mairon/Witch-King Of Angmar
Comments: 16
Kudos: 43





	Thou Pluckest Me Out

“A god shaped hole. The barren desolation of a fallen and failed creation. You see the light of long dead stars. Your existence is nothing but an echo of a dying god’s screams.”

\- The Court of Alagadda, from The SCP Foundation

***

A raven, dark and sleek and silent in its flight settled itself upon the shoulder of the hooded figure. The fetid wooden beams warped against a crumbling portion of the roof above, a ray of silver moonlight breaching through and glistening on the black wings of the other birds as they flew this way and that, searching for their proper perches on the decaying skeleton of the castle, intent on bringing their Lord news. On the figure’s shoulder, the Captain of the Ravens gave his softest clicks, his wings fanned about him as he dropped a clipping of yew into the figure’s open hand. The others above them watched, heads turning from side-to-side as if in agreement.

The ravens saw many things, heard many things. They knew things the White Council did not, that the elves could never know. Their bright, discerning eyes knew why the Nine defended the hill so fiercely and they knew that when they came back from hours of patrolling the thick eaves of Mirkwood, dropping a sprig of yew onto their Lord’s lap, an ease would come upon him that could be felt as a sigh through the land. A branch of yew meant that all was safe, that there was a guard and the Nine could rest. A thousand eyes like glossy jet dewdrops, full of cunning, followed their Captain’s proud flight back through the ivy-choked hole in the roof. They swirled in dipping circles around the greatest spire of Dol Guldur as they returned to their careful watch on the woods.

Pale fingers close around the yew-needles, crushing their jade and releasing the fragrance to the cool air. The figure shuddered, tossing the remains to the fire that roared at his side so that thin black trails curled into the air for a moment and then were gone. He paused, as if looking at the thin, pale gold of the ring that was upon his finger, gleaming brighter as he turned it towards the gaping mouth of the large fireplace. But that instant passed quickly, and he turned now towards the bed.

His black robes brush the cold stone floor was he kneels, as he bows his head so that it presses against the silk of the covers he tries not to think of as a shroud. He clasps his hands as if in prayer, something unconscious that his body recalls from the lifetime he should have died in. His shoulders tremble and he leans up only to stoke the emaciated hand of his Master, the bone-white lines of flesh his phalanges protrude against and the single missing finger. The touch of his skin is cold and the One remains lost. The fire in the hearth withers.

He kneels for hours before his Master stirs with soft whimpers. The hooded figure doesn’t hesitate to join him under his shroud, despite his deference, to pull him close even though he can no longer give him warmth with his body. It doesn’t seem to help: his Master sobs now, thrashing about his embrace not to leave but to get closer to him, to press himself as near as he can to the one that will still hold him. He does what he can to calm him, to remind him that he is _(loved)_ protected, that his power will return to him with time, that his servants are still loyal. He brings him close to his chest and tries not to think about the thin, fragile feeling of the bone that struggles to press against him.

The moonlight is falling down upon them now from the hole in the roof. A strand of long, glossy black hair escapes the hood of the figure and drapes down along his shoulder where it glistens. His Master stops struggling and opens his eyes. His four-fingered hand is quivering as it caresses the lock of hair, as if it were something unimaginably precious to him. The figure shudders as he holds him, watching him stroke his hair with wide, fireless eyes.

Dry peeling lips move as if to speak. His voice sounds like wind stirring sand, like a strained sigh. Nothing comes out but it doesn’t matter: he can hear his Master’s voice through their bond and it speaks into his mind in a thousand whispers:

_“Forgive me. Forgive me, my Love! I hath failed thee! I hath failed thee.”_

He kisses his forehead, his gaunt and scarred cheeks, the sunken orbit of his eyes and the listless movement of his lips that are still without sound. It is all as if to say: “ _I forgive you, and I love you, and I will not leave you,”_ but no words fall from his lips either. Instead, the Witch-King holds Sauron close as his hand falls back down against his chest from exhaustion. He kisses his forehead again, lingering there until he is sure his Master has fallen deep beneath the folds of conscious awareness before the words leave him truly.

The moonlight falls on a skeletal hand clutching a dark strand of hair.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from T.S. Eliot's Wasteland.  
> You could interpret this as Mairon imagining that Angmar is Melkor, as is implied by the quote in the beginning. You could even make an argument that he sees Celebrimbor, though I haven't tagged that. You could also see it as him truly seeing Angmar himself and feeling some terrible regret that he has failed him.  
> Angmar loves him either way.  
> ***


End file.
